Madame du Deffand settled herself beside a small table, and laughed up at Avon.
“Now, my friend, let us hear your fairy tale! I hope it is exciting?”
“Of that, madame, I shall leave you to judge,” Avon replied. He took up his stand before the fire, and opened his snuffbox, and helped himself delicately to a pinch of snuff. The firelight and the candlelight played upon him; his face was inscrutable, except that the strange eyes held a mocking gleam.
“There’s something afoot, I’ll swear!” d’Anvau confided to his neighbour. “I mislike that look on our friend’s face.”
His Grace shut his snuffbox, and flicked a speck of snuff from one great cuff.
“My story, madame, begins as all good stories should,” he said, and though he spoke softly his voice carried through the room. “Once upon a time—there were two brothers. I have forgotten their names, but since they detested each other, I will call them Cain and—er—Abel. I have no idea whether the original Abel detested the original Cain, and I beg that no one will enlighten me. I like to think that he did. If you ask me whence sprang this hatred between the brothers I can only suggest that it may have originated in the heads of each. Their hair was so fiery that I fear some of the fire must have entered into the brain.” His Grace spread open his fan, and looked serenely down into Armand de Saint-Vire’s face of dawning wonderment. “Quite so. The hatred grew and flourished until I believe there was nothing one brother would not do to spite the other. It became a veritable obsession with Cain, a madness that recoiled on him in the most disastrous manner, as I shall show you. My tale is not without a moral, you will be relieved to hear.”
“What in the world does all this mean?” whispered Lavoulère to a friend. “Is it a fairy tale, or does something lie behind?”
“I don’t know. How does he manage to hold his audience so still, I wonder?”
His Grace went on, speaking very slowly and dispassionately.
“Cain, being the elder of these two brothers, succeeded in due course to his father, who was a Comte and went the way of all flesh. If you imagine that the enmity now subsided between him and Abel, I beg you will permit me to disabuse your minds of so commonplace a thought. Cain’s succession but added fuel to the fire of hatred, and whereas our friend Abel was consumed of a desire to stand in his brother’s shoes, Cain was consumed of a like desire to keep him out of them. A situation fraught with possibilities, you perceive.” He paused to survey his audience; they watched him in mingled bewilderment and curiosity. “With this life-ambition in view, then, our single-minded friend Cain took a wife unto himself, and doubtless thought himself secure. But Fate, capricious jade, evidently disliked him, for the years went by, and still there came no son to gladden Cain’s heart. You conceive the chagrin of Cain? Abel, however, grew more and more jubilant, and I fear he did not hesitate to make—er—a jest of his brother’s ill-luck. It was perhaps unwise of him.” His Grace glanced at Madame de Saint-Vire, who sat rigid, and very pale, beside Lady Fanny. His Grace began to wave his fan rhythmically to and fro. “I believe Cain’s wife presented him once with a stillborn child. It began to seem unlikely that Cain would realise his ambition, but contrary to Abel’s expectations, Madame le Comtesse raised her husband’s hopes once more. This time Cain determined that there should be no mistake. Possibly he had learned to mistrust his luck. When madame’s time was upon her he carried her off to his estates, where she was delivered of—a daughter.” Again he paused, and looked across the room at Saint-Vire. He saw the Comte cast a furtive glance towards the door, and colour angrily at sight of Rupert lounging there. His Grace smiled, and swung his eyeglass on its ribbon. “Of a daughter. Now observe the cunning of Cain. On his estate, possibly in his employ, there dwelt a farm-labourer, as I judge, whose wife had just presented him with a second son. Fate, or Chance, thus set a trap for Cain, into which he walked. He bribed this peasant to give him his lusty son in exchange for his daughter.”
“But what infamy!” exclaimed Madame de Vauvallon comfortably. “You shock me, Duc!”
“Strive to bear with me, madame. There is always the moral. This exchange, then, was effected, none being the wiser save the parents of each child, and of course the midwife who attended Madame la Comtesse. What became of her I do not know.”
“Mon Dieu, what a tale!” remarked Madame du Deffand. “I so dislike these villains!”
“Go on, Justin!” said Armand sharply. “You interest me extraordinarily!”
“Yes, I thought that I should,” nodded his Grace pensively.
“What became of—Cain’s daughter?”
“Patience, Armand. Let us first dispose of Cain and his supposed son. Cain presently brought his family back to Paris—did I tell you that this tale takes place in France?—leaving instructions that his daughter’s foster-father was to leave his estates for some remote spot, unknown to anyone, including himself. In Cain’s place I think I should not have desired so ardently to lose all trace of the child, but no doubt he acted as he thought wisest.”
“Duc,” interposed Madame de la Roque, “it is inconceivable that any mother could consent to such a wicked plan!”
Madame de Saint-Vire held her handkerchief to her mouth with one shaking hand.
“Almost inconceivable,” Avon said gently. “Probably the lady feared her husband. He was a most unpleasant person, believe me.”
“We can easily believe that,” Madame smiled. “A villainous creature! Go on!”
From under his heavy lids Avon watched Saint-Vire tug at his cravat; his eyes travelled on to Merivale’s intent countenance, and he smiled faintly.
“Cain, and his wife, and his pretended son, returned to Paris, as I have said, and
